Reversing the Pendulum
by PyroSomnia
Summary: The pendulum swings backward. Time begins retreating instead of proceeding forward. Minutes capsize; what has been a long process of months, years, and decades transform back into the days of childhood where warmth and affection once prospered. A different timeline, emergent from the recent spoils of war, a place of lost innocence. Turning back into the past, years and years ago.
1. A New Generation

Reversing the Pendulum

Chapter 1: A New Generation

* * *

In the beginning, there was unbearable pain.

_He traced the touch of translucent skin under novice, inexperienced fingers, prodding, examining carefully in every crevice—every sliver the tightly wrapped attire allowed. He would only touch sections that were willingly exposed, for even he knew to respect to privacy of those deceased. The epidermis of the elder man was cooling steadily and continuing to do so as he caught his breath, attempting to rationalize the next course of action._

_Only there wasn't any possible contemplation, any alternative he could conjure in the feeble aspects of a naïve, arcane psyche. _

_As loud screams were flung haphazardly, hate brandished towards the sky soon eclipsed by the rapid agglomeration of clouds, fingers trembled, wrapping loosely around dilapidated cloth. Irrevocably, he concluded this must be what crying feels like as the relentless pummeling of raindrops intertwined with the saltiness of his own tears. It blanketed the dirt grounds of the village, causing many to flee to the warmth and safety of their own homes, his despairing supplication falling upon deaf ears, drowned out as the forsaken, superior heavens mocked him with an even louder ridicule._

_Cold and growing colder, he employed his best endeavors to shield the much larger body with his frail one, shivering as the downpour drenched his form to its innermost core. _

_The burning of the skies became agonizing._

_In a frantic effort, he shifted his gaze to the shops, which by now were drawn shut, villagers either oblivious or choosing the more painless of the latter to avoid offering assistance and direct confrontation. Their presence wasn't wanted, they assumed. Their help would go ineffective. Families watched the spectacle through the thin fissures of their shelters, where filtered light cascaded out onto the evacuated streets._

_"Ojii-sama! Ojii-sama! Ronin-ojii-sama!" Feverish eyes vivid with turbulence and anguish reacted to the slightest movement in his peripheral vision, turning to set upon a boy no more than one year younger than himself amidst the company of a man much older, distinguishably related. Heterochromatic eyes burned his vision at the sight of the younger male turning his head to meet the faltering implorations, the right a deep crimson while the left bore an encompassment of vibrant emerald shades._

_His reverie was shattered instantaneously as the older figure shielded the child's vision with an umbrella, admonishing him with unheard reprimands as they sauntered down the opposite direction, fingers pressed almost urgently to the younger's back as if in an attempt to mask the cruel reality from virtuous eyes._

_"Ojii-sama… Ojii…sama…" A single purposeful choke clawed its way up his throat, yet remained tightly lodged in the passage of his airway. The blood of innocence singed the dark expanses above, wielded by the shape of one that had succumbed to loss beneath. The action provided nothing to warm the unyielding drops pelting the exposed pieces of his writhing physique. _

_"Don't leave me, Ojii-sama… Ojii-sama… Ronin-ojii-sama…"_

An older male shut the memory from his mind three years later, cursing in retrospect at the brief moment of distraction, thus allowing his opponent to gain the upper hand. Sidestepping to the left, he avoided an assault that would have collided with his face had he not taken the initiative. Evading the rapid secondary counter, he lowered his body to shift his foot forward, sweeping it across to connect with the ankle of his adversary and effectively displacing his body onto the grass. Without sparing as much as a brief pause, he disappeared and reappeared on the back of the younger male, and within a matter of moves, he shifted the other's arm behind to his vertebrae, effectively ceasing any struggle of the latter to dislodge the older boy. There they stayed in a neatly arranged compromise of positions—breaths hasty and heartbeats rushed until their bodies stopped shaking and their respiration somewhat regressed to a normal rate.

The younger of the two was the first to rouse himself, unceremoniously pushing his senior off as he took an inventory of his injuries, each one applied nothing less than with a callous and ruthless manner; despite the severity of the contusions on his arms and the bruises across his face, by now swelling tenfold, he showed no evidence of the discoloration being a bother, much less the damage that would have unquestionably caused hemorrhage. Though not sustaining as much harm, the sparse amount of injuries marring the elder youth's extremities elicited a mixed reaction of grimacing and discomfort.

"It is tomorrow, isn't it?" the former questioned, feeling a sense of superiority as he met the other male's accusing stare. "Yukio-senpai." The last remnants of formality felt superfluous, though he added it mockingly if anything less.

"Address me with respect, Yotōmushi. You're my junior, and I will not accept such impudence." The respective male's response was given bitterly, his set of livid orbs set critically on the expressionless other before he veered his attention to the visible damage of capillaries protruding on pallid flesh. "How is the swelling? Does it hurt?"

A pregnant silence was drawn out as the younger figure opened his mouth to speak, not fathoming the inquiry. His eyes averted to the leaf covering above. "No… Not at all."

Yukio drew upon a crooked, foreign sort of smile. "Of course not, Yotōmushi."

"Yotōmushi, Yotōmushi," he repeated contemptuously, regaining his poise. "By tomorrow, we will be equals. Wouldn't you say we're a bit past the notion of degrading epithets?" The iridescent sun scorched its rays through the canopy of leaves, illuminating the younger as if marking his words, throwing out its last desperate flames while being swallowed by the grim skyline.

"If you've been attempting to prove yourself as my equal, you've been failing spectacularly."

* * *

The erected dusky red facility casted an extensive, elongated silhouette against the sand of the anterior school grounds, stretching to the notable trees at the outlying edge with one specifically identified by the forlorn swing attached to its branch. Prominent at the front entrance emblazoned a bold kanji; within the walls, the sizeable building comprised of several classrooms notable in their extent. Particularly, copious numbers of the Jōnin and Anbu were frequently sighted circulating from the upper level of the Hokage office to the front entrance as well as to outlying districts of the concentrated village. Rumors propagated through selective Chūnin that a recent slaughter had occurred at the hamlet's remote borders, accounting for the great convention of the elite, though they themselves could not verify the validity of the proposed allegations.

Yukio assumed a sly, sardonic smile across thin lips as he took his designated seat next to the window at the front of the classroom, reminiscing the stiff feeling of occupying a wooden bench. His classmates slowly filtered into the other seats ordered alphabetically, gradually elevating the overall noise level and ruckus. If anyone had taken a note of his attendance, they didn't visibly portray it. After all, he couldn't say he'd familiarized himself with anyone during being present, much less outside of the Academy when absent.

The mellifluous note of their Academy instructor's voice emerged from the entrance, quickly quelling the effervescent commotion in the classroom only a few moments ago. He hadn't been able to identify her, which he attributed to the Hokage having installed a new Chūnin during his nonappearance.

"Students," she began, performing a complete speculation of the pupils who'd all chosen a specific place to wear their forehead protectors, "as you all know, today is the day of your graduation." She momentarily acquired a makeshift pause, noticing one face she hadn't witnessed for a year while another whom she hadn't recognized at all.

"As of today, you are all ninja. In order to get here, it's no secret that you've faced many difficult trials, but only by confronting those hardships were you able to see me here congratulating you today. However, now you are only Genin, low-leveled ninja, and the problems and struggles to come will be far more difficult. Do not become overconfident as the world is listless with shinobi, countless who are more experienced and stronger than you! The real danger has only begun, and by wearing these forehead protectors, the leaf symbol signifies your indisputable loyalty and commitment to this village. From now on, you are ninja and will carry out tasks to represent this village and maintain its glory in the shinobi world.

"All Genin will be assembled into a three-man cell, all of which will be under the supervision of a Jōnin leader. Your higher authority will be your instructor, therefore being the one to provide you all of your orders within and out of missions. The squads are set up by an insight into each individual's strengths and weaknesses in order to complement the collective team."

As the impassive Academy instructor announced the series of names, interest had slowly been drained from those not addressed, while emotions ranging from ire and antipathy to casual pleasantries of introduction disseminated throughout the vicinity of young, newly appointed ninja. She would've remarked the comedic ongoing and execution of the situation had some of the fresh, irate teammates not threatened and baited the others into an amassed competition, one she quickly dispersed with a trace of irritation before resuming the roster:

"Team Four: Hamano Riku, Kairaishi Yukio, and Shinsui Atasuke."

Upon hearing Yukio's name, the title of the student with the supposedly prolonged absence, a subtle tumult instigated in the classroom amongst students conversing with their adjacent neighbors at the mentioning, either astonished or unfamiliar with the reference.

Neglecting to attend to the abrupt interruption, the instructor continued until she reached the last squad on her list. With a conclusive action of slapping the stack of papers onto her podium, she gave a final gesture of dismissal. "That's it for the groups. The Jōnin instructors will meet you this afternoon. Till then, meeting adjourned!"

* * *

A Chūnin messenger located his target as the tall figure emerging from the alleyway route he'd used as a shortcut. The former sprinted up to the man at utmost swiftness, mentally preparing himself with reverence laced in a firm, regarding tone. He was familiar with the male as the latter had established a delicate, notorious reputation within the ranks of village ninja, working predominantly in offhanded occupations from the resident bathing houses to the interrogation units. Officially, he was labeled as a Jōnin instructor at the contemporary age of twenty-four, even if the division in itself didn't seem appropriate. Despite the certification and assumed title, he had yet to pass a squad, even after fulfilling the role for close to three years.

The higher-ranked male paid no attention to the Chūnin's carefully crafted remarks as he seized the scroll, albeit with a countenance of impatience and vexation. He unfurled it quickly, perceiving it as a summons from the Hokage to all the Jōnin instructors on standby, mentally swearing a surplus of expletives as he observed the order issued in regards to the recent Genin squads. He recalled the last cell, seemingly just a week ago, that he'd failed irrefutably without so much as a hint of remorse as they were left crying while returning to the Academy.

He offered a nod as a sign of gratitude towards the Chūnin's delivery, before an elbow went immediately to mask his mouth, hiding the violent coughs racking his frame. He was able to register features of the face, however—perhaps it was an old member of his year's rookie Genin (the male certainly seemed old enough), or it could've been a younger sibling of a former peer. He dejectedly shelved the musing, directing himself to the current predicament at hand upon entering the Hokage office.

He wasn't alone, for at least a half dozen other Jōnin awaited their selection. He was the last one at the end of the procession, standing languidly and attempting to restrain the minor quakes of his body behind a head of white strands he realized was the latest addition to their group of Jōnin trainers. In sequence, each individual obtained their latest yield of potential teammates before he was the last one standing in front of the Hokage.

The older man analyzed his sick face, and at a momentary glance, he was able to reveal the expressions concealed beneath the pretense of a disinterested malady—so full of fire and simmering rage remaining unquenched after the duration of many years. The Hokage took a deep breath before exhaling the smoke from his pipe, only to spur another prickling itch at the Jōnin's thorax.

"Try not to traumatize them too badly, Tsuyoshi," he commented with veiled concern, handing the last solitary file to the man. The Jōnin leader instinctually reached for the offending item, but was instantly rebuffed, the folder snatched away. "Tsuyoshi," the Sandaime repeated, openly displaying unease, "you've yet to pass one group as you approach three years in this department. Though this was my recommendation, if being a Jōnin sensei is not suitable to accommodate your tastes, I can transfer you to another division."

He was sorely tempted to agree, but he instead cursed himself and Hiruzen, partially for the latter's analytical abilities, but mostly for the ease of others to read him. He grunted as an ambiguous sign, not wanting to submit himself under the knowing inspection of the wiser man, and grabbed a hold of the papers. Instantly, he felt older, aged about double his time as though under the begrudging weight of obligation, a lifeless reluctance.

"Perhaps this year's bunch will prove surprising."

He doesn't believe a word of it.

* * *

_The opening of the paper doors after the first Jōnin leaders' entrances had alerted the remaining Genin of the arrival of a newcomer, expectedly watching the threshold with zealous grins and avid sneers. In an instant, coughing filled the classroom, earning replaced faces of alarm and confusion. With an unidentifiable voice emerging from the hallway, hoarse and monotonous, the tenor beckoned the spoken to in an almost reproaching manner: "Team Four, I will meet you at the training grounds in one hour." A noticeable pause was inserted, replaced by more coughing. "Do not be late."_

"That's what I said…but it seems one of you didn't adhere to my warning." The Jōnin sensei gave a disapproving rebuke with a click of his tongue, sitting on a large wooden crate while carrying on his convulsion of muted noises. Upon closer inspection, the two present Genin observed the slightest changes surfacing from the container, occasionally tilting it to the left or right in a frenzy of movements before assuming a diminutive intermission and continuing the previous repetition of actions; the slits had been closed and the lid sealed shut, leaving the inner contents unknown.

_Is he okay?_ The female member's shifted to the side, readjusting the sleeves of her wear in an almost wonted fashion. _Besides that, what's…in that box?_

The other Genin smiled cynically, staring at their displeased instructor with a bit more interest than discovering the actual fillings of the case. _Seems like this guy should be in a hospital rather than teaching._

Despite his infamous status as the village's leading choleric sensei, even as common knowledge among Academy graduates, the new Genin didn't discover his appearance to be as intimidating as they'd originally anticipated—though it was to say that his actual form only slightly failed in reaching their expectations.

He was a fit and relatively tall shinobi, accompanied by a head of spiky hair with an ash brown hue pulled back into a low ponytail nearing his scapula. His eyes were a pale bronze, narrow, only to be exemplified by the peculiar marker beneath—an area pigmented red which the Genin could only assume to be through the use of something analogous to face-paint. While bangs fell between his eyes with the sides framing his face, the left strand noticeably longer, the upper half of his hair landed onto a pair of goggles with red lens, asymmetrically skewed slightly to the right.

Akin to every other Jōnin, his upper body was dressed in the customary flak jacket above a black outfit, the ends of his sleeves rolled up. While his left forearm sported bandages, his right contrastingly wore black-lined mesh armor. At his lower abdomen hung a white sash, the hitai-ate attached at his waistline.

The new graduates attempted to compose themselves, though failed miserably. Between staring at the unusual features on their unbalanced sensei suffering perpetual tremors, who apparently prioritized disproportionality above all else, to the box of mysterious subjects beneath him to waiting resentfully for their last teammate, they couldn't decide which was worse.

"While we entertain the product of tardiness generated by this insubordinate misfit…let's get productive, shall we? Introductions…are in order." At the inquiring looks of the Genin, he stifled a grumble of obscenities between coughing into his sleeve, muttering spitefully at the obliviousness of the younger generations. "It's time to work out the details of this…partnership, you could say, though I utilize that term very loosely. I'd like to emphasize the separation between us…in case you could not have ascertained that yourself. Truthfully, I hold doubts that your inferior, little minds could process anything of this gravity.

"I never intended to be a babysitter nor am I particularly overjoyed at the notion of being assigned to incompetent brats…but I am your commander, so orders from me are carried out with absolute willingness and obligation. Of the twenty-seven graduates, only nine will be chosen to become Genin…while those remaining will be returned to the Academy. Therefore, using simple math, the failure rate is over 66 per cent. Don't let it come as a surprise if I'm not pushing for your promotion. With those statistics compounded against you…I can't say it'd be shocking if you two are amongst the dropouts, Genin."

Feeling a little stronger than she actually felt, the female team member of the squad pronounced clearly: "Hamano Riku."

"…Pardon?" Taken aback, the older man relocated his absent gaze from the sky to the small ten-year old girl sitting in front of him, giving the close impression of surprise.

Of the two, she was taller, though not by a great quantity. Her most discernible trait was her light platinum blonde hair extending only to her shoulders while the tresses at the right were gathered to form a side ponytail, resting against the upper section of her head. Exposed through the bangs at her forehead, her amber irises radiated with a combination of confidence, yet covert fear.

In terms of attire, the Konoha forehead protector at her neck, she was dressed in a tan sleeveless jacket while long sleeves of a pastel yellow appeared at her arms with black stripes in the middle of the sleeves stretching vertically; dark shorts stopped at her knees, showcasing scratches and abrasions, as well as recent instances of bleeding—whether or not it was her intention.

"My name is Hamano Riku. I understand I am a Genin and a kunoichi, but these are designations, not names. I wouldn't refer to you as Jōnin or ninja, Sensei." She bit her lip, feeling the latter part of her argument vaguely contradicting her contention.

"Very well…Riku." His voice was cold and apathetic, but she figured it was better reasoning with him to respect their insubstantial amount of dignity rather than allow him to degrade what was left of it.

His golden eyes moved to the smaller boy who matched his glance with a look of satirical amusement, perhaps at his chronic infirmity, making the Jōnin somewhat keen in cleaning the portrayal of arrogance from the disdainful irises, pigmented with luminous flecks of ice blue. They resembled the barren skies and the arctic winds as though they'd been personified with character, sheltered beneath inky black locks and framed by chin-length strands of hair against stark ivory skin. Indelible dark circles were blatant beneath his eyes, alluding to the implication of prolonged insomnia.

The front concentrated the spikes of his hair to the left side of his head as if windswept, while the back of his head remained consistent with the pattern down his neck, although done in a rather tamer fashion. Aside from the attributes that would attract one's attention directly to the messy styling of his hair or the epitomized frost in his eyes, the only other uniqueness of his apparel stemmed from the dark red scarf draped around his neck, the two separate ends extending down his back and approaching the posterior aspect of his knees. The remaining garments consisted of a simple navy shirt with cuffed black pants and bandages bound around his shins; the plate of his hitai-ate was sewn onto his left upper-sleeve.

"And you?"

"Kairaishi Yukio—I graduated from the Academy at age seven though was put on a temporary hiatus due to no teams having been available." The sarcastic, condescending mirth danced amidst his narrow lips, prominent and mischievous in his irises.

"Boastful, aren't you?" the older male retorted, smashing his hands together with a cracking sound. He was familiar with the child at the current age of nine, having been briefed before on the graduate's situation, though he still found his patience wearing thin as he regarded the misplaced superiority insufferable. "No matter. By the time this exercise is completed…you'll be amongst those sniveling as they are shamefully sent back."

"Don't make promises you can't ensure, Sensei."

"Don't patronize me, Genin."

Yukio turned to face his ailing instructor, only to find that he'd left his station atop the wooden crate. _Strange_, he mused, before the appearance of ninja shoes appeared in his line of vision. Before he could react, a gloved hand twisted his shirtfront, lifting him onto his feet, while the other of the pair joined its accomplice, connecting deep into the side of his face and resonating a clamorous cacophony of his cheekbone splitting into the clearing.

The younger Genin was dropped brusquely onto the grass, groaning as the pain exploded into his head. He'd never been exceptionally remarkable in the degree of pain tolerance, especially when his proved to be below average at best.

_His condition…made me underestimate his strength…!_

Riku glanced over to the wincing body of her incapacitated teammate, molding chakra to examine how badly the damage had been sustained. The swelling was immediate, and infusing the contusion with her chakra, her attempt only managed to lessen the pain, if only by a little. He didn't possess enough energy to protest.

"It's only a fracture, luckily." She received a grunt of muffled agony as affirmation. Rotating her head to locate their sensei, Riku discovered him situated once more on the box, resuming his post and covering his mouth. "That was unnecessary." Her accusation expended a tone bordering indignant. Her marginal knowledge in medical ninjutsu unofficially bound her with a reluctant duty of tending to the injured. Still, she didn't like using more chakra than required.

"Hello, my name is Kinshō Tsuyoshi, appointed leader of Team Four, and I am a certified bastard in the department of being an asshole. I was attempting to make it subtle…but frankly, I'm afraid I don't give a damn concerning your opinion of me." He gave a jeering, caustic smirk before dodging the attack launched behind him, sensing the attacker's chakra before the strike managed to hit.

Unfortunately, the wooden case he'd been sitting on had not been as privileged, smashing open under the force of the weapon. A distressful, almost excruciating, squeal could be heard emitting from the container as it spilled out what was inside, followed by other disturbing imitations of the same screaming.

Of the graduates, the stranger was the tallest by a modest few inches. In his clan's standard, traditional clothing, he was dressed in a long navy robe ending meager inches before his knees while a pasty undergarment—a shitagi—was visible underneath, held closed with a white obi at his waist. His lower half revealed a pair of white pants with bandages around his shins. As opposed to the conventional utility of ninja shoes, though appealing to the clan's customs, waraji were donned at his feet, the fastened surfaces of straw sandals pressing lightly against the dirt territory.

Removing glided irises from the weapon the Academy graduate handled, Tsuyoshi scanned the child's upper profile, denoting the hair arbitrarily tamed with various spikes projecting from his skull, tinged with a faint blue; the bangs framing his alabaster skin were slightly beyond chin-length, whereas the back of his mane extended to the verge of his shoulders. Beneath his bangs, the village headband rested against his forehead while atypical irises of a pale silver color with an additional ring near the outer edge remained stanch and steadfast.

The new arrival exhaled a steady breath, settling the end of his weapon on the ground and disengaging his fighting stance. In the sun, the rays lustrously brightened the clan insignia embroidered on both sleeves of the kimono—a black wisp with a blemish of white at the bottom and a black dot inside was characteristic of the crest while two smaller white wisps were on either side of the emblem, as if the icons were forming a koi and its fins; a copy of the character with inverted colors appeared at the opposite end with the reverse position, creating a parallel pattern.

Aside from the initial surprise, it was bizarre to see an individual engage combat carrying such a heavy weapon. It consisted of a single-edged blade while a smaller spike protruded from the opposite end of the shortened pole, the only obvious modification in comparison to the established polearm aside from its compromised length. The blade was deeply curved somewhat thicker in width than an average naginata, insinuating its exclusive aim to be solely useful for sweeping cuts. Upon thorough investigation, the long shaft sported a distinctive metal ring at its middle, a glaring contrast on the wood.

"Shinsui Atasuke. Apologies for my delay. I would express regret for that last gesture, but the tension was so palpable, I couldn't resist." He forged a strange sort of smile, wiping the stained edge on the verdant pasture.

_A member from the Shinsui clan…_ Tsuyoshi briefly entertained the idea of disabling the former as he did his other male student, but quickly terminated the prospect, reflecting that his new opponent most like had a much higher scale of endurance. He felt himself slowly slipping into a deceptively aloof stance, taking in the uninterested visage of the one in front.

"You're finally here." He managed a soft chuckle, followed by subdued rackets from his throat. "However, you actually came at me with killing intent, so I'll exchange the sense of well-deserved acknowledgement to exempting your being late." He produced a flippant gesticulation, waving his fingers. "Now that the final member has appeared, I believe we've concluded all the appropriate formalities. I'll enlighten you all with your exercise." From the shrieking at his feet, he grabbed the mammal by its head, holding out the hoard of white albino fur for the young Genin to inspect.

"Normally, the other Jōnin leaders would suggest their students to rest up…in order to prepare for their forthcoming obstacles and imminent failure on the next day. You, however, received the misfortune of securing a spot on my team; therefore, no such luxury will be granted." The rabbit continued to squirm in his increasingly tight grasp, making the Genin themselves grow uneasy.

Riku was the first to speak, feeling renewed courage after tending to her squad member. Yukio mustered up enough strength despite nurturing the raw bruise, provisionally numb with anesthetics that he knew would later abate and incite a rekindled flame at his cheek once the training was over.

"…What will we have to do?"

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, everyone. This is a story I've been composing for a while now, and I've just recently decided to post it on here. If it gets enough attention, I'll post more soon. I've always wanted to write a story centering on original characters, but seeing as how there are a lot of plots concerning the next generation, I thought I'd write one on the past generation.

_Ojii-sama - Ojii is used as a reference to "grandfather", while the honorific -sama is used to address a very respected person.  
Yotōmushi - Yotōmushi basically translates to cutworm or armyworm, which is the nickname Yukio gives to his friend.  
shitagi - An article of Atasuke's clothing, it's simply an undergarment worn beneath a kimono or samurai armor.  
obi - An article of Atasuke's clothing, it's __a sash for traditional Japanese dress, such as for kimono outfits.  
waraji - An article of Atasuke's clothing, these are sandals made of straw worn by the samurai class and foot soldiers._


	2. Starting Signal

Reversing the Pendulum

Chapter 2: Starting Signal

* * *

Tsuyoshi offered a deceiving smile in the midst of quiet coughs, glancing uninterestedly at the splattered blood tainting the grass and exposed innards from the white bunny mutilated open by his student's blade, severed at its midriff. The rest of its companions had long scurried away, leaving the rabbit in the Jōnin's vice-like grip to be the remaining one in their small area. His grip had repositioned to the main body of fur after much protesting from the animal, only to reinforce his hand and provoke rivulets of scarlet to soak and dye the pallid white an abysmal vermilion. The rabbit screeched with sporadic pitches, which gradually wavered as it grew lifeless in the man's hands.

"Tell me, my lovely little brats. What is the paramount importance when you are fighting an enemy? Consider this a battle for your life."

"Ability."

"Speed."

Tsuyoshi shook his head at both of the male graduates. "Wrong. Wrong." He gave an expectant look towards the only female member who still appeared perceptibly stunned by the events.

"Defense."

"And…wrong." He released the carcass of the mammal onto the meadow, wiping his bloodied digits onto the sash at his waist. "While those features are all valuable assets, those are of lesser importance. No—in a fatal fight, you must first and foremost have initiative. You cannot risk having any qualms about killing your opponent before he can kill you. If you do not think you can manage that…then you should all quit as being shinobi.

"This is why you all are still brats. You don't recognize the authenticity of the shinobi world while you occupy some utopian, idealistic parallelism. If you can't handle killing meager animals…you will have no chances of survival. Are you underestimating ninjas? Can you put aside your own self-interests in order to sacrifice your emotions? That…is what it means to be shinobi. If your teammates are in peril…you cannot allow your own selfish morality to compromise the outcome of the mission or the lives of your cell."

For the first time since they met him, Tsuyoshi appeared solemn with a pained oddity, rid of the annoyance and exasperation often gracing his expression. "You are going to kill those rabbits…which are now all distributed throughout the entire expanse. There was originally an even number to give you all an equal opportunity…but seeing as how two are dead, one member of the team will have one more than the others in the worst case scenario—for you at least.

"You will hunt the entire clearing and kill the rabbits once you locate them. This exercise will end once the sun sets, and your passing rate will be determined based on the amount of corpses you've accumulated. I recommend not manipulating the rules in any method to deceive me…such as using a henge to transform another object into a rabbit. It'd be detrimental anyway, as only I know the accumulative amount of all the rabbits currently occupying this area. I also advise finding a viable hiding spot to cluster your corpses as teammates do have a tendency to steal from one another. Anyone found breaking the rules…will be sent back to the Academy, while the two with the fewest in quantity will suffer the same fate. If you all fail to locate the minimum number I've set…then all three of you will fail."

He had recited the procedures with such assurance; it seemed as if he was merely conversing to someone about the weather. The magnitude of the current affair was certainly instilled in the graduates present.

"As I said, I will give you until sundown, approximately three hours from now."

* * *

From setting the weapon on his back to leaping through the lush roof of trees overhead, his feet moved instinctively, almost robotically as each step landed with precision on the sturdy points of tattered branches, propelling him forward with mechanical brevity. His mind wasn't involved; it was primitive. Jumping down from a tree limb with practiced stealth, Atasuke landed silently, repositioning the heavy blade on his back to the ground.

In a custom akin to a macabre dance, he took the foot corresponding to the hand wielding the polearm and sited it above the sharpened spike at the bottom, kicking it into his opposite hand. In a series of majestic movements, he sliced the blade vertically down into a lunge, catching three unfortunate rabbits in the process of the stroke.

In rapid succession, he hooked his blade up and swiveled his body a half turn, momentarily lowering the cutting edge before thrusting it upward, piercing another fleeing mammal and pinning to the trunk. Alternating the shaft on either side of him through various spins and rotations, his swings weakened to a calculated cessation; the end spike plunged into the overturned grass, tearing completely through the organs of the bunny that had stopped at the spot and skewing it perfectly from head to tail.

_Five._ A smirk reached his face, only to wane in the few following seconds as the remains dissipated into wisps of smoke, smearing the clearing in a thick coat of white. Atasuke clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening. The point of his weapon had simply impaled a log. _Decoys? I guess this will prove a bit challenging after all._

* * *

In an instant of sighting the still rabbit at the opening through the leaves and dense forestry, he flung a kunai from the holster at his left thigh, spearing the animal securely through its chest. By stepping on the dirt trail, he detected the trap situated beneath, provoked only upon killing the bunny.

Without reflexes immediate enough to react, the rope successfully snared around his ankle, suspending his inverted body several feet from the ground while a triggered log flung forward from its lair. Yukio grappled another kunai to slice apart the cord, using the momentum of falling to push against the base of the trunk, thus avoiding contact with the ground and the activation of another ruse. Above, the colossal log smashed deep into the origins of the trunk where he was moments before.

_Disconcerting, this is—all of it._

Yukio wandered to the carcass of the rabbit, the ground dyed splotches of scarlet from the spilling, cavernous void. He removed the metal dagger meticulously as to not rupture any other organs than the penetrated heart before lowering his body, caressing the unresponsive mass of fur with delicate fingers, a floating expression of grief settling on his face.

* * *

Riku had chosen an isolated root projecting from the ground, sitting forlornly in the distant company of her cell leader's coughing. What a pitiful predicament she found herself in as her gaze inhabited the palms of scratched, roughened hands one moment while sheltering the entirety of her head the next, heavy with doubt and laden with admonishments.

_You're a fool._

A rebounding thought had reverberated in the recesses of his mind for the last hour—at least for what she assumed was an hour. The sun was lowering steadily, yet not as close to setting as she'd originally hoped. A significant hour or two remained before the sky would be painted in dark brushes as opposed to the streaks of vehement reds, oranges, and yellows—a lively show of impassioned sweeps across the heavenly expanse directly in juxtaposition to her inner turmoil.

Her groan was drowned at the contact of her hands, audible only to close ears and recoiling back to mock her. The irony, she considered, was almost laughable. If only she'd known the consequences of such a dastard promotion; if only she hadn't selected the forbidding path of a shinobi in the first place.

But no, she'd chosen to be a ninja because of the liberation it offered, the selected freedom bequeathed beyond the imposing, imprisoning village gates. Her skull lifted from its lodge in her palms, allowing her to once again assume a critical glare at the openly accusing presence of her hands.

They weren't slender or soft in the way that most females her age had the fortune of possessing, neither like velvet nor silk to the gentle touch. Instead, calluses riddled and abused the surface from the peaks of her digits to the base of her palms, proud and distending at the skin with evidence of chakra expenditure and jutsu usage. Rugged from unrefined handling, they appeared crude, suggesting she was more appropriately fit for pauper and carpentry work than the polished adroitness of a ninja.

Managing to deflect her racing mind from the horrible reality, her twin set of liquid gold collided with a pair of sharp ocher irises. Her sensei had been crouched, his forearms resting on his knees with a look of confusion. His coughing only seemed to augment the darkness beneath his eyes, as if the red paint had been applied to disguise any evidence of dark circles.

"One may consider direct contact with a student to be favoritism," she stated quietly.

If he'd taken account of her remark, he hadn't made notice of it.

"You realize if you don't make any output of effort, I cannot pass you." His eyebrows knitted together, embedded with deep perplexity. "Shinobi life isn't fun and games. Of the three, shouldn't you know that best?"

Riku felt astonished at the fact that his tenor lacked its characteristic note of downplay and superiority. His countenance was static with the same graveness from when he'd initiated the exercise. At a close propinquity, she could glimpse the ripened youthfulness in his face, clandestinely secreted beneath his pores, but it was evident—only obscured beneath forces stripping the vigor and imparting lassitude in overcast pupils.

"You might as well fail me now, Tsuyoshi-sensei—to spare the trouble later."

In the middle of covering his mouth in its usual episodes, he'd produced a soft, yet soprano whistle—something Riku had assumed to be a merely sharp susurrus of the wind. Almost instantly, a rustle emitted from the bushes opposite their position, subsequently yielding a bulk of an albino pelt. Tsuyoshi generated another quick signal as if to cancel his previous command, the pitch faintly shriller.

Without facing her direction, he issued a command with an odd baritone of voice:

"Kill it."

* * *

He treaded with stealthy movements along the coverlets of fallen leaves, the impression of waraji sandals producing a soft crunching underfoot. Atasuke had kept his senses sharp, a steady release of chakra emanating from his body at a constant rate. He'd encountered an austere chakra a few moments prior, a frivolous, fleeting indication as if mocking his instincts, before reappearing on his sensor. At his initial entrance, he'd been able to sense the chakra of those present. This was colder than Riku's, fouler than the Jōnin instructor's.

The respective owner emerged from the opposite end, continuing his walk with a bloody rabbit dangling between his fingers, coated in a shower of scarlet from the origin down to the tips. They both stopped in their strides, backs adjacent and dead roots crackling beneath the applied weight.

"Kairaishi Yukio, early graduate, was it? Wouldn't that make you two years my senior?" The weapon specialist stared ahead, no indication of resuming his movements or expecting an answer to his rhetorical advances. "It sure looks like I'm winning."

"At the moment, it would seem so."

Yukio's hands dropped into a hand sign the moment he heard the disturbance of metal; Atasuke had reached for his weapon, yet it remained tightened in his fingers, not yet separated from his back. Two rabbits were speared at the end spike, disemboweled and eviscerated.

"Take this as a warning, Kairaishi."

"Don't get in my way, Shinsui Atasuke."

* * *

"I hope you didn't actually think this was going to be _easy_." The stranger's stress on the last word even made the emphasis seem as if it was in italics.

At catching sound of the humorless whisper, the black-haired graduate pivoted his head promptly in response. After a lack of movement, he sprung back from his current location, kunai knife in hand and balancing the four corpses pinned to his concurrently tarnished shirt—sullied with the grime and filth of the misleadingly tranquil surroundings while defiled by the seeping sanguine streams from unfortunate, oblivious victims. Yukio's mouth thinned, pondering.

It was a growing problem—his level of tolerance and forgiveness. He mentally berated himself, wandering in the shallow waters of a contemplative rumination before the barrage of kunai from various directions alerted him of impending danger, acknowledged only by the hums produced as they sliced through the air. He leaped to the side, narrowly escaping the general course of the ninja arms as they successively burrowed deep within the bark behind him.

_Left? Right?_

Yukio directed his gaze upwards, sighting the chaotic pieces of mahogany tresses draping down from the assaulter's head in compliance with gravity.

"Well, hello there." He reacted casually, eyebrows rising in a falsely construed act of complacency. Taking the opportunity of direct confrontation, he flung the present dagger in his hand at the target. Tsuyoshi dodged with the elegance of an elite, an experienced dancer, as he used his chakra to step behind with ease on the branch, flipping backwards to reach the ground.

"You realize your targets are the rabbits—not me."

"I also realize that you wouldn't appear if you had no reason to do so."

Yukio dashed at him, unarmed and unfazed by the foreboding presence as he extended his leg, aiming his first kick to the shins of the squad leader. If Tsuyoshi hadn't worn a mask of indifference, his student would've surely seen his belittling amusement. Before contact was established, the Jōnin disappeared. The Genin revolved his entire body in an instant, training his second kick on the invisible opponent with an innate impulse. The attack successfully linked to the other's epidermis, only for him to momentarily realize the bond was established between his ankle and the older man's hand. He allowed his actions to linger as the grip drilled into his skin, puncturing crescent cuts on the bandages. Yukio's fist grazed the instructor's face, generating a sudden cut across the latter's complexion; a sharpened portion of steel was revealed through clamped fingers sheathed with a sense of urgency, bloodstained and whitened from clasping the blade of the kunai and by the degree of force applied.

At the unexpected sting from an acute laceration on his cheekbone, Tsuyoshi loosened his hold enough for the young Genin the wrest free, backing away with a gauged precaution in mind.

"I haven't the faintest idea of what you're trying to accomplish," Yukio started, forming a hand sign, much to the other's undisclosed attentiveness, "but I figure if anything, you're exerting your best efforts to prevent our promotion."

"Our? You say it as if you've founded some sort of camaraderie with your cellmates." He scoffed.

The previously distinct atmosphere of clarity and brightness in the clearing soon became misted, settled unusually by a blanket of pristine white tapestry. The transformation was stable and consistent, progressing gradually until Tsuyoshi was only able to perceive a dimmed apparition of his student.

_Genjutsu?_ He preserved his equanimity, hands in his pockets as he looked on with a compromised vision. _Not exactly, huh…_

"You're not real."

"How do you figure?" the older man responded, testing his foe's position. Yukio's stance hadn't changed.

Suddenly, the temperature dropped, accompanied by an equalized distribution of vapor infusing into the condensation. Despite it being a moderately warm day, the degrees had suddenly taken a plunge. As if to assist in his inquisitive survey, the ground developed abstract, crystalline fractals, propagating as the sky continued to dampen.

The temperate had plummeted to subzero.

The Jōnin smirked, his arms crossed. "Aah, silly me. How could I have forgotten? You come from interesting origins as well."

Cold. Suffocation. Not figuratively; literally—the feeling of the temperature dropping quickly, _too_ quickly. The expanse seemed to be suddenly filled with Yukio's existence and his governed chakra, draping a cloak of frost over the Jōnin's body, over the soil and dust of the terrain, over the heavy collection of a thriving assortment of trees.

It was too cold to do anything, and surely, only more chilliness was to come. It basked like a waft over Tsuyoshi's composure with austere glaciation. He exhaled sharply, testing the current settings, only to be greeted by the frigidity of his breath ricocheting in an accentuated sight of white ambience in front of his drying lips, extinguishing them into a throbbing state.

"Oh? Did I touch a nerve?"

His skin had begun to turn raw and glacial, almost lucid, from the inhibition of blood circulation.

Nevertheless, he remained standing, subscribing no concern to the practice.

"I find it difficult to believe your cough would've cleared up, considering how it's habitual." Yukio tipped his head in a falsified consideration, a tinny sarcasm in his words. "If this was a shadow clone, which it undoubtedly is, your sole purpose is to deliver information gained back to the main body as research. A bit sacrificial, isn't it?"

"You deflected my question—"

It arrived like the ravenous, blistering winds typically supplementary to the cold, predatory like the insatiable gusts of blizzards and the trickle of snow, breathed in a discreet murmur as if unfolding a guttural secret to the omniscient winds:

"Hissatsu Hyōsō."

Giant spikes of ice ascended from the floor dressed in glass, breaking through a sort of translucent illusion the mist had constructed as it was unleashed with a furtive lethality. It distorted the taller male from all angles, encasing the figure in a grotesque display. As expected, the clone was instantly dissolved in a cover of smoky clouds.

It left Yukio was a strangely bittersweet smile, contemplating the veracity behind the man's comments.

* * *

A good number of nine carcasses were pinned to the lower end of his weapon, deflated and superimposed together. They were simply hides now, emptied mostly of any plausible innards that were once contained in the waxen external covering.

Atasuke paced across the plain fields, a bit vexed if anything by the additional weight hindering his usually agile performance. There hadn't been any better option, he'd concluded. To sling the bodies onto a makeshift thread anywhere on his clothing would undoubtedly spoil the conventional attire of the clan—and he would've rather walked home cleaning his blade than the rusted stench of decomposition from his body—and veiling the remains somewhere along the meadow was foolish. He didn't trust his newfound squad leader to be exactly fair in their game, considering the amount of traps he'd encountered up till now. He was sure his latest exploits had been received if his teammates encountered his trail along their own scavenge. After all, piles of disposed innards were difficult to miss.

There was a shallow gash at his shoulder and scratches on his face indicating the struggle of an animalistic forage. He'd gotten careless, he'd noted, examining the jagged cut where a consecutive number of shuriken he hadn't seen had slit the cloth and epithelium while crafting through an ambush of shinobi tools. Those were the minor injuries. Amongst other lacerations near his abdomen, a number were deeper.

Atasuke wrung out his fingers, resting momentarily on a convex root from the hearth of a tree. His breathing came in shaky exhales, uneven by the attempt to subdue the effect blood loss had on his body.

The test, in all matters, had struck him as contradictory and paradoxical as he progressed through the trial. Surely through well-founded knowledge, missions fresh Genin carried out were accomplished in a cell of three—usually—and he was willing to bet normality was in play, at least during this course of action. He relocated a light aluminum stare to the setting sun, a few feet away from the threatening horizon from where he sat.

He gave a throaty sigh.

_"You are going to kill those rabbits…which are now all distributed throughout the entire expanse. There was originally an even number to give you all an equal opportunity…but seeing as how two are dead, one member of the team will have one more than the others in the worst case scenario—for you at least."_

_His tone remained unconcerned in the presence of such a dilemma that arose, suggesting that he anticipated—no—planned for such an advantage to transpire and tilt the odds in one's favor. If anything, the killing of two—at the very least, one—rabbit at the beginning was part of his plan. If I hadn't killed one when breaking open the box, he would've still done so himself. After all, he had no purpose to kill another one as demonstration._

Patiently, as though negotiating an ultimatum with a small child, he coerced the secluded depths of his memories for the product of a better vision.

_"I also advise finding a viable hiding spot to cluster your corpses as teammates do have a tendency to steal from one another. Anyone found breaking the rules…will be sent back to the Academy, while the two with the fewest in quantity will suffer the same fate. If you all fail to locate the minimum number I've set…then all three of you will fail."_

_Squad mutiny would undoubtedly surface based on those terms—factors provoking competition and ruthless behavior. He subtly inserts an allusion to a minimum quantity as opposed to encouraging one student to set a monopoly over the amount of corpses accumulated to whittle down the chances of other cell members succeeding. _

_No… He's not challenging us to amass the largest amount. There's more… What else…?_

Atasuke peeked through the gaps of his fingers, staring begrudgingly as the sun closed in on its set destination.

_"That…is what it means to be shinobi. If your teammates are in peril…you cannot allow your own selfish morality to compromise the outcome of the mission or the lives of your cell." _

He widened his eyes in realization, pupils dilated.

_…Of course. He planted a trap in the trial. Thus by engaging use of tactics that would undeniably pit teammates against each other, he's challenging us work as a collective team to help one another for us all to succeed. Allowing two team members to fail—hypothetically abandoning them in the scenario of a mission—is not even a conceivable option. In this training, he's challenging us to put aside our own self-interests to help others reach the minimum number. _

_Yeah… That has to be it. That's the only reasonable explanation for the implementation of the last rule—to locate the minimum number. That's merely a diversion anyway, a scapegoat. If any one person in the squad was to know the total, it may stimulate a desire towards greed. I doubt there really is a set minimum number. If one student fails to help his other teammates in order to benefit himself, Tsuyoshi will simply fail him on the notion of sacrificing his cell._

He watched as the last glimmer of sunlight disappeared in the distance, flinging sparse flickers as it was overtaken by the voracious descent of dusk taking a contrived residence. The sound of crackling leaves and a branch snapping alerted him of another individual, twisting his head to meet ocher irises.

"Time's up, brat." A twisted smile was prepared on cue.

"I know your game."

The exchange only lasted for a second, but as the figure vanished in a curtain of a pale shroud, Atasuke sighted the unmistakable, fleeting look skimming across his expression: faith.

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, and thanks to those that read and reviewed the last chapter as well. It helps me with motivation quite a bit, since planning this story is fun, but writing the fight scenes is always a difficult task. If there are any questions concerning any of the characters, feel free to ask! However, I can't assure that I will be willing to answer every inquiry due to future spoilers. Until next time.

_Hissatsu Hyōsō - translates literally as Certain-Kill Ice Spears_


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